But the trumpeting of our inadequacy is also, more importantly, part of what seems to me to be a pervasive but unmentioned writers’ ethos: that we don’t like success. Or that we don’t crave it--”crave” being the loaded word we might choose to imply that the desire for success stems from a weakness of the soul. True, it’s rare that we hear of the writer who explicitly hopes not to be on a best-seller list, or the one who scorns book clubs because they are too popular. It’s quite common, though, to come across the sentiment among writers that while success is nice, it is not to be wished for--and if achieved, is to be apologized for. If the Olympic fortnight taught us anything--if we managed to pierce the veil of Sochi strangeness to focus on the competition--it’s sportsmanship. We know it when we see it: the winner is triumphant but not gloating; there is no shame in losing, and none in trying. The athletes don’t think less of the ones who openly strive for the win.